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Sick DayBeing sick is never fun. I never got sick very often, even as a child- but this one is particularly stubborn. "(Sniff, Hack!) Ugh." I can't help but make disgusting noises like this- it's not easy to be attractive when your entire body weight (in snot) happens to be dribbling out of your nose.
"You know, Cindy-" He starts, but I interrupt with another coughing fit.
"(Cough! Cough!) Hang on." I reach for the (number 17, 000) tissue and blow. "Ew." I don't know why I have the particularly nasty habit of glancing inside the tissues I fill, but I do, and then I regret it. He rolls his eyes at me- he doesn't understand this habit of mine either. So I grin and hold it out to him.
An eyebrow goes up, reaching upward on his huge head. "Not...really. Why is it that you always do that to yourself?" He says, smile growing as he shakes his head.
I glance down at the pile of filled tissues laying around me. "Ah duno." I say, my stuffed nose blocking my ability to talk.
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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